


Last Waltz

by Yekith



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: 60's, Homophobia, M/M, Romance, Tragedy, beliefs, hippie, slightly supernatural touches, teen, this doesn't end as sad as you might think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yekith/pseuds/Yekith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When desperate times call for desperate measures, a boy gives up his naive plan and decides to trust his lover -and his beliefs- blindly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> The main theme of this fic doesn't represent my own beliefs, and I don't necessarily agree with what the characters do. It's what came to my mind while listening to the song "Walt waltz" by The Rasmus, and I think it fits it.
> 
> I encourage you to listen to the song (you can also read the lyrics under 'information'): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZ06wbO4mGM
> 
> IMPORTANT!: *The first part of this story happens around the mid 60's.  
> *The parts that are completely in italics are flashbacks/previous conversations.

"Gee...we need to get away, as soon as possible." I stop the kiss panting, seizing his leather jacket in urgency. Pleading. He just shakes his head, again; the only answer I have been getting every time I bring up the subject. "You know the only reason why you're not performing a real-life version of the 'Jailhouse Rock' right now is because our parents have been friends for years, and your brother Mikey's like a second son to my parents. But next time we get caught they won't be so generous, we..."  


"I know, Frankie, I know..." Gerard breathes out against my cheek, a hand going up to pointlessly try to mend his Elvis Presley hairstyle. The other one rests on my waist, slowly swinging us to the rhythm of "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away", the record disobediently spinning in my dad's expensive player. It's so sadly fitting that I have to roll my eyes. Gerard kisses my neck and although it's hard for me to think when he does that, I can't let him avoid this conversation.  


"What are we waiting for, then?" I ask while I stare into his worried eyes. 

He hesitates for a few seconds before responding, "We're waiting for the last waltz."  


"Gerard...what are you talking about? Can you please be serious at least once? _I_ am supposed to be the kid here. Please..."  


"Your hair is getting long, I like it. It'd be a pity if you were forced to have it cut when school starts again." He dodges my questions, as usual. His fingers play gracefully with the curls that fall on my face and I momentarily lose the ability to articulate words. "You deserve freedom. Real freedom, my hippie doll."  


"Well, then let's..."  


"No, that's no solution."  


"And what is?" I push him away, irritated. "Can you be more clear and explain what you meant by 'the last waltz'?  


"It's simple: we die just to live again." He pulls me back to him by my vest and hugs me, ignoring my angry struggle. My wet eyes meet his when he lets me go, still not understanding what lies behind his elegant words. His thumbs wipe my tears away.  


"What...? Gee, you need to lay down those books about reincarnation and past lives, I think they're rotting..."  


"Until next Friday, love."  


I cast an annoyed glance at the old wooden clock. Almost 5PM. My mom will be home soon and I know we need to put an end to this encounter. I allow myself to be kissed this time, clinging to Gerard's neck as if my life depended on it. Maybe it does. I let his tongue invade me, his hands squeeze me needy as we moan softly. Once a week is not enough, one hour is nothing. Gerard spends longer on the bus each Friday than he does here with me, and it's simply not fair. I don't care if I'm only sixteen and he's five years older. I don't care that we both belong to the same gender. Love is love -too bad no one else understands it. Why can't we just leave town together?

I unwillingly draw away. I'm afraid my mother will notice that my lips are too red and swollen, that my breathing comes out too ragged, that my eyes sparkle with a special light. She's so observant, so overprotective, so reluctant to accept that her little Frankie is not a child anymore. Since _that_ day she's been extremely paranoid about the big bad world and its big bad people wanting to take my innocence away.  


"Until next week, love," I whisper.  


"Take care," Gerard mutters, giving my lips a last peck and stopping the record player's needle on his way out.  


Less than five minutes after he leaves, I hear my mother return home from her weekly manicure appointment. I speedily grab the newspaper from the coffee table and pretend to be reading, praying that she didn't see Gerard out there. 

She didn't; but my refusal to strike up a conversation or even look her in the eye doesn't end too well. "Do you know what would have happened if I'd had this attitude towards my parents when I was your age, young man?" she roars.  


"Yes, mom," I reply tediously.  


" _These_ are the kind of ideas those dirty hippies got in your head! You used to be such a nice, polite boy. And look at you! You look like a girl, for God's sake! But let me tell you something, Frank: this ridiculousness," she waves her hands in my direction, "ends in two weeks when school starts again."  


"LEAVE ME ALONE!" I scream. "You already dragged me away from the person I love. Not content with that, you now insist on controlling what I do, wear, listen to or believe in! Can't you just let me live my life, mom?"  


"To your room, NOW." She slaps me, shaking her head in disappointment. "The things I have to hear! _Sixteen!_ You can't even keep your room clean and in order and yet you have the nerve to talk about love and 'living your life'..."  


I don't argue anymore; instead I do as she says and go up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door behind me. This is nothing new to me; it has been happening at least once or twice a week lately. I know, however, that my mother's anger won't last. She loves her only child too much to stay mad at him. She's very strict and will stick to the rules, but can't keep the angry act for too long. My father might be a little more severe if she tells him, but I can perfectly endure their punishments. They won't lay a hand on me harder than a slap, and for that I'm thankful. Any other thing, I can cope with. No TV? No music? No dessert? Not leaving the house? I still have my books, and they already took the most important thing away from me.

That, is the only thought in my mind as I lie down on my bed and cry: Gerard. My best friend's older brother. The funny kid with black hair, pointy nose and tiny teeth. My neighbor for ten years. The boy who would escort us to school, buy us candy and stand up for us if bigger kids were bothering us. The one who I suddenly saw with different eyes when I turned fourteen, who made me realise I wasn't interested in girls like all of my school mates. The one whose feelings unexpectedly matched mine that summer, when I bravely told him that I was in love with him. My secret boyfriend for two years; stealing kisses behind trees, sneaking out of our houses at night or pushing our luck while our parents weren't home.

We grew too confident, we got too carried away one day, six weeks ago. We lost all notion of time, lost ourselves in each other arms on Gerard's comfy couch. The fact that we still had our clothes on didn't make the situation any better. It wasn't only Gerard's parents who walked in on us, but also mine. Damn them being such good friends -or not, because that is precisely what saved Gerard from going to prison for perversion and abuse of a minor. Of course, no one would pay attention to me when I said he never forced me. Both our families -except for Mikey- were disgusted. They labeled what we have as sick. However, my father said I was still young enough to be saved, _cured_. After a long debate between the concerned parties, it was decided that we would move away.

I had to leave my friends and I'm due to start at a new school soon; but contrary to what they think, I didn't stop seeing Gerard. He managed to get Fridays free at the factory where he works, and he puts up with a two-hour bus ride to visit me for just one miserable hour. This intensified my love for him, even if sixty minutes are far from enough and the way I miss him is tearing me apart.

I love Gerard. Deeply, hopelessly. I love the way he kisses me, caresses me. I love his seductive voice when he whispers sweet nothings in my ear. I love his long-fingered hands on my thighs when he carries me with my legs around his waist, when he carefully lowers me on the bed, the couch or the floor. I loved when he would buy me flowers and make garlands with them that I'd proudly wear on my head and then keep in between the pages of my favorite books. I love his style to dress, even if it's so different from mine and of rather dubious taste. It feels like having my very own rock and roll star; with his sideburns and his high hairdo, his leather clothes and funny, pointy-collared shirts. I love when he sings to me, using a broom stick as an improvised microphone while I scream like a crazed fanatic. I love when he makes love to me, being impossibly gentle inclusively now that our moments together are so ephemeral.  


Sometimes I also hate Gerard. I hate when he seems so full of himself, when he cares too much about his hair and gets fastidious if I accidentally mess it up. I hate when he reminds me that I'm still a kid. I hate when he talks to me with ceremonious words that I can't fully understand and then laughs at my bewildered expression. I hate when he plays mysterious and ignores my questions, giving me new riddles instead of answers. I hate his lack of hope in humanity and how he sometimes makes no sense.

_"We have to escape, get away from here together, away from the closed-minded people."  
_

_"Frankie, we'll find close-minded people everywhere..."_

_"How do you know that? I'm sure we'll be accepted if we..."  
_

_"...if we go live with some group of hippies? Baby, they don't get along with the police, and your parents would go after them first. That 'free love' shit is just an ideal, Frank. There's no escaping people's judgment, they'll never leave us in peace."  
_

_"You're so pessimistic..."  
_

_"No, you're too optimistic. Must be that stuff that you smoke."  
_

_"Shut up, you don't understand."  
_

_"Of course I don't."  
_

_"..."  
_

_"..."  
_

_"Let's get out of here."  
_

_"I can't leave my brother."  
_

_"Mikey will understand. I already had to leave my friends!"  
_

_"It's no solution, Frankie..."_   


Since I moved here, Gerard and I have had more or less the same conversation every time we see each other. He always rejects my plan. He maintains that even though he loves me and would never leave me, what we have is not right. He says we should accept that love between two men it's not normal, it's sinful for most people; and no matter where we go, they will never leave us be. _Not in these times._ At that point is when he usually stops, refuses to say more. Until today. Today I pushed the matter and got some kind of answer. The problem is that I couldn't comprehend it, or I didn't want to. It scared me. Those words scare me and at the same time attract me, seduce me. They won't leave my head.  


_"We're waiting for the last waltz."_   


_"It's simple: we die just to live again."_

I try phoning him several times during that weekend and the beginning of the following week, whenever my parents are not around. Gerard and I have a code so the other knows who is calling and runs to answer: we let it ring once, hang up, then dial again thirty seconds later. By now, my index finger has indents from the telephone dial and the poor black device will soon break in two if I continue to slam the handset violently every time I hear Gerard's parents' voice instead of his. I know he knows I will ask questions and that's why he doesn't want to talk to me. Sometimes it's so easy for me to hate him, but my love for him is stronger than any other feeling. In the end he's just as desperate as I am.  


******  


On Thursday, I find out that my parents will be spending the weekend at the beach, and I can't go because I'm still grounded. I do my best to seem saddened by it while my insides are jumping with joy. An old aunt who lives nearby will be visiting during the day to check on me and make sure I'm rereading my text books to get ready for school. She will also cook my meals and control that I respect my imposed bed time -10PM at most. I'm not allowed to leave the house and my aunt will keep the keys; however, there is still the basement window. I won't be going anywhere, but no doubt someone will be getting in once aunt Leonor goes home to take care of my cousins. That, if I can talk to Gerard.

My next try is less futile; Mikey answers the phone. When I hear my best friend's voice I truly take notice of how much I have missed him, and for a while I put his brother aside so we can talk about what we've been up to. The conversation eventually veers to Gerard nevertheless, for he's all I have been up to in reality. As I supposed, he knows I have been calling. Mikey says his older brother simply refused to answer. When asked why, Gerard explained it was to give me some time to think about what he'd told me during our last meeting, that I knew what he meant and didn't need to ask any more questions.

I sigh loudly, eluding Mikey's inquisitiveness. If my interpretation of Gerard's words was right and I agreed to that, his younger brother would be the most hurt. I can't talk to him about it when it's not even clear in my own head.  


I beg my friend to give Gerard my message. "Tell him to come to my house on _Saturday_ this week, after 10:30PM. I'll leave the basement window unlocked for him."  


I have no more news from Gerard after that, and I spend my days thinking his words over and over. They still terrify me, I'm full of questions that I know he won't help with. But there is this other part of me that has no doubts, the part that strives to blindly believe in what Gerard believes. I want to trust him. No, I already trust him...do I?

It's when I'm painfully drowning in my math book -under my aunt's infallible surveillance- that the phone rings, startling me.  


"It's just the telephone, Frank, why are you so nervous?" Leonor frowns. She hurries to answer it, but it stopped by the time she gets there.  


"Uh..." I stand up and slyly walk towards the small table. "...I guess it's because of the new school, you know?"  


"Oh, I'm sure you'll do great. You're a very intelligent boy." She smiles. 

I give her a quick smile in return that I'm sure looks more like a grimace. I have no time to say anything since the phone rings again. I jump to pick it up before she can. "Hello?"  


"Frankie..."  


"Wh-why..?" I have so much to tell him, but I can't even say his name with my aunt sitting so close to me.  


"Listen, baby: I know you hated me for not answering your calls all these days, but it was for a good reason. Last Friday I could see it in your eyes that you knew what I meant. I won't force you, and I don't expect you to voice your decision over the phone. Listen to your heart. If it tells you that my idea is the only solution -just like mine has been telling me, scatter some fresh flowers under the basement window. Trust me, doll, we'll see better times."

******  


Before night falls, I go to the garden and sneakily cut some daisies, irises, jasmines and a single red rose, carefully arranging them into the multicolored flower vase over my desk.  


Eating dinner is a torment. I try to not think too much. I want to let my heart decide and tell me what to do, but my heart is in my throat; my heart is pounding in my head. I hear it beat faster and faster, a merciless clock signaling that the hour is near.  


Once in bed, Aunt Leonor tucks me in and pecks my forehead as if I was still a child. When she turns to leave I grab her arm.  


"I love you, auntie," I whisper feelingly, kissing her cheek.  


"Frank, Frank..." She hugs me. "If only you were always this nice! Your mother is so worried about your behavior."  


"I'm sorry..."  


******

I hear the front door close and I jump out of bed, picking out my favorite clothes from my wardrobe. Bell-bottomed, light blue jeans that reach bellow my bellybutton. A white blouse with long loose sleeves, its v-shaped neck adorned with embroidered blue flowers and green vines. Handcrafted sandals, the always-present peace token on my chest, and a braided black and blue hair band around my head.  


Hippies have fascinated me ever since the first time I saw them and knew about them, two and a half years ago. The way they dress, their ideology, how they pacifically fight for their rights and their freedom. How they oppose to war. One day I got out of school and there they were; with their long manes, peace sings, bright happy colors and that sweet, strange smell lingering in the air. My 14-year-old eyes took it all and I couldn't help the urge to talk to them. I instantly felt at home, welcomed. They told me where to provisionally find them and I'd visit them as often as I could. They eventually left, but others kept coming from time to time.

My parents weren't pleased when I started to dress like them and call myself a hippie. They restricted my permissions to go out, but I've always found a way. They banned me from wearing these clothes, yet I've always rebelled on weekends and holidays. I wish I could live like most hippies do, travel around the country in colorful buses. I yearn for freedom, a freedom Gerard says we can't have. Not this way, not in these times.

Fixing my chin-length, mahogany hair, I look at myself in the mirror and smile at my reflection. My parents are right, I do look like a girl. It doesn't bother me, sometimes I wish I was one. Not because I'm not happy with what I am; I just think things would be a lot easier. Our problems would end when I turn 18 if that was the case, but no, we'll still be two men. We will still be seen as sinners, abnormal.

I take a deep breath and walk towards my desk. A sudden wave of decisiveness strikes me and with firm pulse I take the flowers out of the vase, exiting my room and leaving a trail of water drops behind me. My braveness doesn't last. The insecurity is back as I descend the basement steps and turn on the dim light. My knees tremble while I shuffle to the opposite wall, the smell of mold making my nose sting. However , I don't stop until I'm in front of the window. I kneel down and raise my arms, letting the smaller flowers fall naturally. I keep the rose, which I place on top. Next, I employ all my strength to move the rusty lock. I push against the tainted glass to have the certainty that it can be lifted enough from the outside; and with a last look at my decision that lays on the floor, I leave.

My heart is settled. My mind is racing. I'm scared, so scared. But there is no other option, I have to go on with this and believe.

Trying hard not to cry, I run back to my room and shove my hand under the mattress, retrieving a plastic bag. If my parents discovered that I have this, I would be sent to a boarding school. They know what hippies smoke, or they at least have some idea. They interrogated me several times about it and I blatantly lied, looking straight to their faces with faked innocence: _"No, mom and dad, I'd never do it. Where would a boy my age get it anyway?"_ Well, it's actually pretty easy if you're one of them; then you just know.

A few sobs break through my lips, my hands working weed and paper hastily and skillfully in spite of my nervousness. The match ignites, the flame caught by my pupils bringing back memories that play like a movie before my eyes. I see us dancing and laughing surrounded by candles in an abandoned building. I see Gerard holding a muffin with a match on top for me to blow out on my 16th birthday.  


I let the flame do its work before it's completely spent. With the handmade cigarette in between my fingers and taking the first drag, I know my fate is sealed. I know it when I don't bother to go near the window to expel the smell, when I don't worry about my parents finding out. 

I don't smoke it all. I only wanted it to help me calm down, relax; and it worked. I prefer to be lucid, alert. It's a very important night. I throw the remains into the now vacant flower vase, the still incandescent end puffing when it touches the water.  


I'm quietly sitting on the couch, the lights out, when I hear Gerard's footsteps behind me. The moon is so bright that I can discern the whole living room. I don't turn to look at him. A slender hand appears holding the dark red rose to my lips. I take it and get up, walking around the couch and standing in front of my boyfriend. He's wearing black pants and shirt, but the somewhat formal jacket is white. We glow under the moonlight. 

Our lips meet before any words are exchanged. There is sadness, desperation and determination in that kiss. There is no asking _if_ we are going to do it.  


"Gee, how are we...?"  


"Shh, no. No talking, let's just dance."  


Gerard guides me by the hand towards the record player. Now I see he has a bag hanging from his shoulder. He discards it on the floor after taking a record out of it, which he gets working in seconds with a few precise, swift movements. Elvis, of course. 'Can't Help Falling in Love'.

"Now look at me," he tells me, his hands on each side of my face. He's smiling. "memorize me, remember me."  


"I could never forget you, silly, I know you by heart." I smile back. 

A sweet, short kiss is deposited on my parted lips, then Gerard produces what looks like black handkerchiefs from one of his pockets.  


"You look so beautiful." He touches my forehead, sliding the hair band off. It falls to the floor and my rose joins it, forgotten. Gerard brushes my hair with his fingers, untangling some knots along the way. "You _are_ so beautiful. I hope your pretty face won't change...although I know that even if it did I would still recognize you. I'd recognize your soul."  


"My soul loves you, and so does my heart," I whisper.  


"I love you too, with all my being. And something as strong as what we have can't get lost. It subsists, it awaits." His words make me shiver.  


"Yes..."  


"Frankie, my dear, now it's time to feel." He covers my eyes with the dark cloth. I stay still as he fastens it at the back of my neck, moving my hair to leave kisses on my nape and down my spine.

Since I'm blinded, my other senses sharpen. The little hairs on my arms bristle, I get goosebumps, a fluttering sensation in my stomach.  


"Are you going to cover your eyes too?" I ask. My voice sounds alien.  


"Of course, see?" I feel him search for my hands and grab them, leading them to his face.  


"I can't _see_ ," I giggle. "but I feel it."

After that there is no more conversation. We dance; my arms laced around his shoulders and his hands folded on my waist. Close, so close. I can sense his respiration behind my ear as he bends down to secretly sing to me those same words we are dancing to. They sound so much more significant when coming from the one you love. His cologne impregnates my airways until I'm pleasantly intoxicated.

I feel serene, in a trance. It's an odd, delightful paralysis where my mind has no control over my body and yet I'm moving. The music is my motor and Gerard is my support. The tactile, olfactory and auditive stimulation has gotten me in the perfect mood as we keep on dancing with blindfolds on.

The next song is a fast one and he rocks me and rolls me. I spin my way to him -wrapped in our connected arms- to have him swiftly untwirl me with a snap. It's exhilarating, nearly frightening when you can't see. Just when I think I will end up on the floor, he pulls me back to his body only to incline me again, this time his forearm detaining my fall. My body is loosened, I let him handle me like a rag doll. I trust him blindly. While in this position he kisses me; and it's the longest, deepest, neediest kiss we have shared. At some point the music changes, and as slowly as the melody goes Gerard helps me back on my feet. But we never stop kissing. Wet, swollen, velvet lips . A warm tongue in synchronicity with mine, dancing to the same rhythm and fitting perfectly like our bodies fit. Hands are amorously and sensually caressing my back, arms, hips. My small fingers dig into gel-saturated hair; they massage up and down and probably mess it up. For once, there is no complaint. My other hand descends through narrow shoulders and collarbone. It fumbles with a couple of buttons, palm landing flat on smooth, hairless skin. Mouths are still locked and I can not think, I can not speak, only feel.  


My lips are suddenly cold. 

"Wait here," Gerard says. 

I know why he stopped us. We were getting too turned on. Lust was winning over us and we shouldn't let things go too far. Not tonight; because as much as we try to push it to the back of our minds, as much as we're pretending this is just one more night, deep inside we're both terrified. I know Gerard is afraid too, clutching to his beliefs tooth and nail. The last time we made love was perfect, so perfect that its memory shouldn't be tinted with another one fed with despair and fear.  


"Forever," I murmur.  


I don't uncover my eyes. I extend my arms and feel around me until my fingertips touch the upholstery of the couch. I sit down and lean my head on the headrest, my lids falling in vain. I concentrate on listening beyond the music. Some noise comes from the kitchen. Glass, liquid being poured, a popping sound. Seconds later those familiar footsteps. The padded surface sinks under someone else's weight beside me and I smile widely. It's not a touch or a word which next awakens my senses, but a smell. Something has been placed in front of my nose and I inhale, welcomed by the scent of red wine. I hesitantly take the cup and another one hits it while a single kiss grazes my cheek. It gives me a chill.  


"For us, for better times," he announces. Is this _it_? Is this how we will do it?

I nearly spill my wine when Gerard's arm grasps my elbow, but I understand what he's doing and laugh, relaxing again. With our arms linked we drink. I can hear him swallow, now and then sighing or clacking his tongue. I savor the wine with no rush, having only tried it a few times before. It tastes delicious in my dry mouth, and without realising it I let out a small, content moan. Gerard stifles a laugh, I bet I'm blushing.

I empty my cup and he's already pulling me up. It's obvious that he can watch me, but I don't mention it. His face is engraved in my mind, so I don't need my eyes to see him.  


"I'm dizzy..." I chuckle, although I feel better than ever.  


"Kids," Gerard teases, embracing me tightly as I rest my head on his shoulder. "They can't hold their wine."  


"And you can't hold your weed."  


"Who cares? That thing is nasty!"  


"Whatever you say." I grin up at him. "It's too hot in here, could you open the window?"  


"Sure, I'll let the night in so it can share this moment," he poetically replies, making me moan again. "Can you stand by yourself?"  


"Yes, Gerard, I'm not drunk." My head feels light, but I'm not as dizzy as before.  


Wood being shaken, apparently resisting Gerard's assault first to finally give in with a plunk followed by the cry of old hinges. A mild breeze tickles the left side of my face, some hairs that stubbornly escaped the restriction of the cloth levitating. This orients me, lets me know where I'm standing. There are many ways to see. 

The wind picks up more speed and I rotate my body towards it, like a flower seeking the light. I spread my arms, refreshed; my whole body is so light. I feel like I could fly free.  


I can't tell how much time elapses. I don't know where Gerard is. I just cherish this moment. The cessation of the music is what brings me back; the sudden silence is perturbing. I strain to hear something: the barely perceptible shuffle of feet, various low sounds I can't identify, then a crepitation.  


"Gerard...where are you?" I don't need an answer when music emerges from over that rustling noise. It's one of my father's records with ancient waltzes. They are all familiar and at the same time I can't put a name to any of them. I have always zoned out when dad tries to teach me about classical composers. None of that matters now; it's soothing, so appropriate.  


I'm caught up in the moment, and what would have otherwise been a very expected onslaught of lips and hands startles me.  


"Sorry," Gerard apologizes, though his hands continue to roam my back, his mouth crashes against mine once more and his tongue snakes in between my lips. There is haste, there is fear, there is love. I don't fight it. I don't have to, I don't want to. My hands, my lips, my tongue, my nose, my eyes, my chest; they all desire him. I long to touch, taste, smell, feel, see. Memorize him with all my senses.  


I desperately tug at the blindfold and steal a blurry peek. Gerard's hair falls partially on his forehead in disarray and it makes him seem younger, childish. His hazel eyes shine in the penumbra and some pearly tears are captured in his lashes. We sustain the other's stare for no more than a minute, then we close our eyes and kiss again. Slower, calmer. Gerard smiles warmly and restores his blindfold -which was around his neck. I imitate him.  


"Get ready for the last waltz," he says.  


Left hand on my waist, mine on his back. Our right ones clasped together in the air, not minding whether we know how to waltz. Swaying and spinning, swaying and spinning blindly. The wind blows furiously through the window in protest for what is coming, but we don't care; we are high, we are flying.

Gerard's hand leaves my sweaty one. The wind howls. We're only apart for two seconds, yet I hate it. There is a click, his left arm returns to circle my waist, and something cold is pressed to my temple. Outside a branch crackles. 

Against all odds, I feel in peace. All my doubts and fears go away. I trust him, I have hope, I believe. My hands reunite in their favorite spot and the wind stops as we resume our dance.  


I've nearly lost notion of the awaiting, freezing metal kissing my skin when the whispered words reach my ear. "Believe that we'll see better times. Never regret, never forget."

******  


Frank opens his eyes to a very bright light. It blinds him, especially given the fact that his last, instant recollection is of being blindfolded. He's confused; he doesn't know where he is or what happened. When his eyes get used to the brightness, although they're still blurry, he looks up at the people standing above him. One is clearly a doctor, even if something is somehow off about him. And...is he examining him? Why? He deduces then that the two woman must be nurses, but their outfits are nothing like he remembers them; not at all. He feels cold, he's scared.  


When he intends to take a look at himself, everything goes black and he's instead looking at the past. Fragments of conversations and scenes come back to him all at once. He can't stop them.

_"Gerard...I know you're older than me, and that you're a boy and I'm a boy, but...I think I'm in love with you."_

_"Of course I want to be your boyfriend, Frankie, but we'll have to keep it secret..."_   
_"I know..."_

_"I love you."_

_"I don't want you seeing those dirty hippies anymore! No son of mine will be one of them!"_

_"Don't mind them, you look perfect."_

_"Are you sure I'm not hurting you?"_   
_"Y-yes, don't stop please..."_

_"Relax, Frank, my parents won't be here for another hour. Keep on kissing me, doll..."_

_"Gerard? Frank? WHAT IS THIS?"_   
_"Oh my God! This is sick!"_   
_"You filthy pervert! Frank, go home right now and wait in your room!"_

_"We won't tell the police, but you're not going to see him anymore. We're moving."_

_"Don't worry babe, I'll be there each Friday."_

_"Hurry up, they're gonna be here any minute now!"_

_"I can't take it anymore, I miss you."  
"I know, Frankie, me too..."_

_"We have to escape, get away from here together, away from the closed-minded people."_

_"What are we waiting for, then?"_   
_"We're waiting for the last waltz."_

_"It's simple: we die just to live again."_

_"...I'll leave the basement window unlocked for him."_

_"I could see it in your eyes that you knew what I meant."_

_"...scatter some fresh flowers under the basement window."_

_"Gee, how are we...?"_   
_"No talking, let's just dance."_

_"...I'd recognize your soul."_

_"I love you too, with all my being."_

_"For us, for better times."_

_"Get ready for the last waltz."_

_"Believe that we'll see better times. Never regret, never forget."_

Frank remembers everything, he remembers how that night was supposed to end. Far from giving him clarity, those memories bring further confusion to his mind.  


"Why am I alive? Where am I? Where is Gerard?" he thinks. 

Desperate, he tries to scream, but the sound that comes out of his throat horrifies him; it is the cry of a baby. Still crying, he raises his hands in front of his eyes: tiny, pink, baby hands.  


"Oh, God, was Gerard right? But...this wasn't mean to be like this. Am I trapped in this body?"

In that moment, one of the nurses wraps him in a soft blanket and picks him up. "Here's your little angel, Mrs. Iero," he hears her say. "How are you going to call him?"

Frank finds himself staring into the blue eyes of a young, brown haired woman. Tears roll down her cheeks as she takes him in her arms and kisses his head with love that has accumulated for nine months. He stops crying, petrified. He doesn't think anyone can help him, he can't talk. Nevertheless he carries on staring at the girl and hopes, wishes.  


She smiles and nods. "Frank. I'm going to call him Frank."  


The memories go away right then; maybe hiding in some nook of the baby's subconscious, maybe disappearing forever. The newborn Frank is still in his mother's arms, his brand new mind clear and ready to be filled with new images, sounds, smells and sensations. No one will probably ever know what went through that little head during the first few minutes of his life, that 31st. of October of 1990.  


******

"Remember I'll be picking you two up in three hours, so be here by then," Frank's mother tells him as he gets out of the car. He puffs while his friend Bob chuckles beside him.  


"I think three hours might be too soon, mom. The meeting point is here in this park, then when enough people gathered we'll be marching along Spring Street to the City Hall. Not sure how long we'll stay there or whether we'll be marching back to the park after that..."  


"Well, if you consider that you need more time, then give me a call, ok?"  


"I'm _eighteen_. You _do_ know I'm not a kid anymore, don't you?" Frank asks. He tries to seem annoyed, but he just can't keep a serious face when his mother is giving him the 'Aww, you'll _always_ be my baby!' pout.  


"I know, Frankie, but we're not in Jersey. You've only been to Los Angeles a couple of times before and I don't want you getting lost, even less looking like _that_."  


"What's wrong with the way I look?" Frank points at himself, grinning. Bob takes his hand and slowly spins him around, exhibiting him to an invisible audience. Frank waggles his hips for better effect.

The aforementioned look includes fuchsia sneakers, low-cut, blue jeans held in place by a pink belt, and a tight, black t-shirt that reads: 'Legalize Gay, repeal Prop 8 Now' in white letters. Frank's hair is shaved and keeps its natural brown color on the sides of his head, the rest forming what could be called a deflated mohawk and dyed the seven colors of the rainbow.

"Oh, boys...you're such clowns!" Frank's mom laughs, glancing around nervously. Frank feels bad for entertaining her with his grownup-wannabe complaints; she shouldn't be still parked there. "Nothing's wrong, you know I completely approve of it. Hell, I dyed your hair myself for this special occasion! But...there's a reason why these protests are needed, if you know what I mean. There's a lot of hate in this world, son."  


Frank looks down and nods sadly. "I'll call you, I promise."  


"Thanks. Now go before they leave without you! Oh, and Frank?"  


"Yeah?"  


"I'm proud of you," she adds, then drives away.

Frank knows she is, it's not the first time she's told him so. His mother has always been proud of him for being a good, responsible student. For doing his best -even if that didn't mean getting straight A's in every subject. She also says it makes her proud that he's a great friend, always there when someone needs a hand or a shoulder to cry on. She felt proud four years ago, when Frank told them he was gay and confidently endured all of his father's ignorant questions and remarks without lowering his gaze or raising his voice. And she certainly never fails to tell him how proud she is every time he takes part in something that involves fighting for his rights.

Now they're in California on vacations. Frank's mom doesn't make much money, but she decided that he deserved real holidays after successfully graduating from high school. She even let him bring his best friend along. They'd been there for three days when Frank read about this pro-Marriage Equality march on the Internet; and he couldn't resist. He doesn't even have a boyfriend at the moment, so it's not like he's thinking about getting married any time soon; but as his mother said while encouraging him to go: "You should also fight for your _future_ rights." If he ever finds that special person who he'll wish to spend the rest of his life with, he wants to be able to legally marry him wherever he wants. Everyone is, first and foremost, a person; and love is love no matter the gender.

His friend Bob agrees with him. The blond, blue eyed guy is unquestionably straight -Frank has to permanently tell him to stop staring like a dumbfounded idiot every time a curved, tanned girl walks past them in the beach. Nonetheless he has a very important reason -besides the obvious ones- to support gay and pro-rights causes in general: Bob Bryar has two moms. And they are, in Frank's words, 'pretty fucking badassely awesome'.

They walk full of excitement among the marchers, keeping the signs they painted the night before high above their heads. Frank smiles at the diversity of attenders his eyes catch. There are people of all ages and social classes. Gay couples and straight couples -with or without children. Large families, groups of friends, coworkers and all kinds of individuals who despite having arrived by themselves, had easily started to socialize.  


Some of them are wearing extravagant, stridently colored clothes that very likely seek to provoke those who oppose them. Others don't seem to feel the need to do that, call attention to themselves or dress any differently from how they usually do. Many are even clad in elegant suits or their work uniforms. The rest -just like him- limited it to only a few symbolic details to let everybody know they are proud of who they are; and to show what they are standing for.  


They are all so different, yet they all want the same, theoretically simple thing: equality. That makes Frank feel like he belongs.  


They already reached the City Hall and are chanting and jumping when a hand lands on his shoulder. Being in the middle of a crowd, it's only logical that he'd be accidentally touched, even pushed around; but this touch is special, it can't be ignored. It sends an electric current up to his brain and it's gone so soon that his mind doesn't have time to process the feeling. 

Bob throws Frank a questioning sideway look, evidently wondering what caused him to suddenly stay still. "Are you ok?" he asks. 

Frank opens his mouth to reply, but the same hand grabs his arm gently. He can tell it's the same one; the electrifying sensation is back.  


"Frankie?" an unknown voice calls. It overwhelms his senses, his knees slacken. What is going on? 

Scared and curious, he slowly turns his body to meet this person who appears to know him. Now eying the guy up and down Frank is certain that _he_ doesn't know _him_. At the same time, he finds him disturbingly familiar.  


Messy, shoulder-length black hair frames a round, high cheeked face which clearly hasn't been touched by the California sun. Bushy, yet not too big brows rest upon hazel eyes that pierce into Frank's in an unique way. The nose is small and pointy. The boy can't be that much older than him, and is only taller by half a head. He's wearing faded gray jeans, a blue t-shirt and a battered leather jacket on top in spite of the current temperature.

Sure, the stranger is incredible handsome -Frank opines, but there's a deeper something about him that doesn't let him tear his eyes away.

"Y-yes," Frank stutters. "How do you know my name?"  


"Oh my God, it's really you! Frankie...I'm Gerard!" the boy tells him with unexplainable emotion. 

Frank doesn't know anyone by the name of Gerard, so why do those six letters ring a bell? The stranger touches his face, eyes filling up with tears as he looks at him. At first, Frank is too lost in the feeling to react in any way; he _likes_ that touch. Then he takes conscience of the situation and freaks out, slapping Gerard's hand off him. The guy is creepy.  


"What the hell?"  


"Sorry..." Gerard hits his head -like he just recalled something important- and smiles showing his amazingly tiny teeth. "This is...oh my, I _knew_ I would find you again. My soul told me so."  


"Look, I don't even know what you're talking about," Frank states, nervously tucking a long lock of bright red hair behind his ear. "What you're saying makes no sense. You can't have found me _again_ because I've never seen you in my life."  


"You are correct." Gerard grins. "Not in _this_ one."  


"What?! Dude...you're a lunatic. A creepy, cheesy one." Frank wants to run away, but a stronger force keeps him stuck to his place.  


"And you, are beautiful," Gerard replies, and for the first time he looks -or glares- at Bob, who has been silently watching them. "Is this your boyfriend, Frankie?"  


"Oh, no no! Just his best friend!" Bob assures, giving Frank a shove in Gerard's direction. "All yours!"  


"BOB! He's a weirdo!" Frank whines. His heart beats faster and faster. Should he hate Bob for this? Should he thank him?  


"You _like_ him, I know you." His buddy winks and turns his back on him and Gerard, offering them some -relative- privacy. 

Yes, Frank likes what he sees, but Bob has no idea of how frighteningly confounding this boy's presence is to him. Does he want this privacy?  


The street noise and people's voices have been silenced. Frank can't even feel the heat or see the other bodies jumping around him. Confusion leads the moment. He closes his eyes, trying to make some sense out of this encounter, or maybe just wishing Gerard away so he wouldn't _have_ to understand what is happening. 

Frank feels a chill. The little hairs of his neck stand on end when someone's hot breath caresses his right ear, anticipating the words that are whispered to him next. "These are better times for us. This time we will dance until whoever is in charge of this life's music decides it is our last waltz..."  


End file.
